


a closed-loop system

by van1lla_v1lla1n



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Bisexual Tom Wambsgans, Boss/Employee Relationship, Call Me By Your Name References, Developing Relationship, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Fruit, Idiots in Love, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Let’s be real Greg is also a sub but he could be a service dom if he really wanted to, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, References to Drugs, References to Homophobia, Snowballing, Sub Tom Wambsgans, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/van1lla_v1lla1n/pseuds/van1lla_v1lla1n
Summary: Tom’s angry and embarrassed that Greg told basically every last Roy about thespecial experiencehe had at his bachelor party. Tom doesn’t even really understand why everyone thinks it’s so funny, so Greg tries to explain. But then Greg can’t stop thinking about it either.------Begins after Tom's bachelor party in s. 1, ep. 8, and continues along with s. 2.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 13
Kudos: 66
Collections: The Missing Hours: 3–5 a.m. on the night of March 12





	a closed-loop system

The Sunday after Tom’s bachelor party, Greg lay in bed until nearly 6 p.m. trying to sleep but only managed to doze off a few times. He was exhausted. Restless and bored, he checked his email and nearly threw his phone at the wall when he saw an email from Tom. The only thing that stopped him was that he’d probably have to get Tom to spot him for a new phone, and he didn’t really want to have to explain that.

But why was _Tom_ awake? He should’ve been sleeping off his drinking binge and his weird not-quite-cheating cum-swapping blowjob. Greg felt a little guilty for telling his cousins about that, but he’d just been shocked that Tom had been so unself-consciously _into_ it, and Greg didn’t want to seem like he was into it too. He’d gotten enough shit from his cousins as a kid; at least all of them but Roman had grown out of calling abnormal things “gay.”

 **Subject:** wake up, fucklehead

 **Message:** See me in my office tomorrow morning. (after you pick up my 8am latte, obviously)

Plus Tom’s eight-line automatic email signature, listing every detail of all his positions, official and unofficial, like he was some kind of feudal lord. And what was the point of this email? He’d have to go by Tom’s office to drop off the coffee anyway. Some kind of power play to make him nervous, maybe. He had no idea what Tom wanted to see him for, but that was normal. It could just as easily be a highfalutin request for a different kind of breakfast pastry as an order to deal with some clandestine staffing emergency.

Greg felt like a baby: too exhausted to actually sleep. He was irritated he’d snorted all that coke and then lost Kendall at the party anyway, but at least he’d gotten Kendall out alive. And maybe Uncle Logan would consider that lateral move.

Tom could be fun, sure, and maybe a good friend? But it was so hard to tell when he was really being earnest about it or not. That was part of his frustrating allure, maybe, that Greg never really knew what to expect from him—shit-talking, usually, but sometimes more like good-natured ribbing, and, rarely, a sincere, almost heart-to-heart kind of conversation. Tom basically wined and dined him sometimes, bought him nice clothes, and for what? Seemed like a lot of work for loyalty.

But Tom was also high-strung, sometimes unbearably particular, and when he felt like it he could be exceptionally vicious. Maybe he’d learned that viciousness to fit in with the Roys, but Greg bore the brunt of it, and it was awful. And he hoped that maybe if he could move to a different department, he and Tom could keep up their friendship, or whatever it was, without all the verbal abuse. Maybe, but probably only if he could get Tom to see the move as anything other than a personal affront. Which, given Tom’s propensity for taking everything as personally as possible, seemed unlikely.

Deciding it was too late for a real meal, Greg scavenged some junk food from his pantry, then finally fell asleep. Still, when he woke up Monday morning, it was like he’d barely slept at all. Starving and running late, he splurged on breakfast for himself at the snooty coffee shop where Tom insisted he get his lattes, hoping a decent meal would put him in a better frame of mind to deal with whatever Tom wanted to talk to him about.

He knocked on Tom’s office doorframe at 7:59 a.m., and the first thing Tom said to him was “Wow, somebody had a rough weekend. Geez,” and laughed that awful guffaw. Tom motioned for him to shut the door behind him, and when Greg turned around to sit across from him, Tom’s face had switched abruptly to some kind of solemn concern.

“What’s wrong, man?” Greg asked.

“Listen, Greg.” Tom fidgeted, and Greg listened obediently as he sipped his coffee. “I really don’t want to do this—I’d really rather not bring it back up at all if I’m being honest—but why the fuck did you go and tell literally every last Roy about my fucking blowjob?”

Greg blushed. Tom could be so shockingly direct, and to be talking about something like this in an office? “Um. Uh, I don’t know, man. I’m sorry. I was kind of high?”

“Coke doesn’t last _that_ long, Greg.”

“It kind of . . . did, though?”

“Alright.” Tom shook his head dismissively, looked down at something on his desk. “But it was a little humiliating, you know? I still don’t even really get why it’s so fucking funny, but let’s just add it to the list, right?”

“I’m sorry, man. I don’t—”

“One of them told _Shiv_ , Greg. She was probably off blowing some teeny-bopper Broadway fuck and on top of that she gets to come home to laugh her ass off at me getting felched.”

“Um, I don’t think those are, like, quite the right terms? But—”

“Just shut up, Greg. Please.” Tom made this frustrated growl, threw a pen across the room. “It doesn’t even make sense. Everybody likes cum, right? Shouldn’t it be great for some hot chick to swill your cum?”

Greg tried so hard not to cringe, blushing furiously. Tom was looking right at him, apparently finding nothing embarrassing about that question, and Greg didn’t want to piss him off by making him feel more humiliated than he already did.

“I don’t know, Tom. I think, like, blowjobs are supposed to be like this dominance thing, like ‘Yeah, I shoved my dick down this girl’s throat!’ Or something. But when, um, if you take your cum back? It’s like you’re not the dominant one anymore? Because the cum is, like, the dominance?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Greg?”

“I don’t know, man, maybe just, like, cum is gay? Or some people think it’s gay, like, to like it? And maybe they think that's bad?”

“How is it gay if it’s my own cum?”

“Look, I'm not saying it makes sense! I’m just saying!”

“Jesus, Greg, don’t fucking yell at me.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever. You can go. Bring me another latte before my 10 a.m. And stop gabbing around about my bachelor party.”

* * *

But Tom was constantly undermining his own imagined authority. It was like he’d watched a foreign-language documentary on asserting dominance, but without subtitles.

He stood so close to Greg in conversations, chest to chest, looking straight up into his face. Tom wasn’t a small person, but he was shorter than Greg by enough to make a difference. And the way he stared at Greg’s face while they talked—it wasn’t lascivious or creepy but somehow attentive, almost vulnerable, like he wanted to notice even the most minute facial expression.

Tom touched him in the smallest ways, a tap on the shoulder or a pat on the elbow after a talk, but it was always slightly too soft, almost a caress. If Logan ever patted Greg on the back, he nearly knocked the breath out of him. And the thing was, Tom never touched anyone else. He wasn’t some office old boy breathing down women’s necks or kneading their shoulders at their desks. Greg hated that he noticed that, hated that he paid such close attention whenever Tom was talking to someone else. But he did.

He wanted to tell Tom the term for _snowballing_ , to acknowledge it was a thing, even though he’d denied he’d ever even heard of it. But as easy as it seemed to be for Tom to bring up things like that, Greg never managed to figure out how.

So he had to live with the image in his head, had to school his face not to redden when it flashed across his mind mid-conversation, when Tom was standing so close, and Greg could look down for the briefest second at his prim mouth, hanging slightly open as he waited for Greg to finish his sentence, and imagine his—someone’s—cum smeared across that lower lip.

Tom was still such an asshole sometimes. Throwing water bottles at your assistant during a shooter-at-large type of crisis? Shouldn’t that be some kind of HR infraction? Apparently not at ATN. But Tom had shouted at him, in full public view: “Are you attempting to break up with me, Greg?” As if they were a couple. You can’t break up with someone you’re not _with_ , right? They couldn’t be a couple, even if Tom’s marriage was some kind of ambiguously non-exclusive gentlemen’s agreement. Tom was his _boss_ , first of all. And second of all—no.

* * *

Once, when Tom came back from a weekend business trip, he called Greg into his office.

“Have you _read_ that book, Greg? And you gave it to me to read on a _business trip_?”

Greg had left a library castoff copy of _Call Me by Your Name_ on Tom’s desk for him to read on the plane, fairly certain he wouldn’t read it anyway. Did Tom read? Greg didn’t really know. He read price tags, at least, to make sure they were high enough.

Greg caught up: “Um, I don’t think—I mean, it wasn’t really—”

“What were you thinking? _Roman_ was on that trip. You’re lucky he doesn’t read, so he didn’t know what was in it either. I’d never hear the end of it—my fucking assistant giving me some kind of porny liberal arts romance to read on a plane.”

Greg half expected the book to be thrown back at him. But it stayed on Tom’s desk.

* * *

The evening after Greg’s interview with the internal investigators about the Cruises scandal, Tom showed up at his apartment unannounced. He was having some kind of bullshit dinner party with some local yuppies, who seemed nice but absurdly idealistic. The second he opened the door to see Tom’s enthusiastic face, he knew it’d be a disaster having him there with these people.

But Tom had refused to leave, saying he was going to spend the night “in a friendly way,” whatever that meant, to make sure Greg didn’t fuck him over with the Cruises papers he’d saved. Tom had fiddled with his tie in such a flirty way when he told him that; Greg didn’t know how to tell him to fuck off, as uneasy as he felt about the whole situation. Tom was just trying to fuck him out of his insurance, right?

When Greg sat back down with his friends, he nervously watched Tom sift through his modest liquor cabinet. Tom kept calling out commentary from the kitchen over his friends’ discussion:

“Greg, is this really _it_?”

“Where did you even find this wine? A fucking Walgreen’s?”

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ, this is basically rubbing alcohol. Good God, Greg.”

Finally Greg rushed into the kitchen to find his one bottle of Scotch, which was on a high shelf above everything else, higher than even Tom would’ve thought to look. He poured Tom a small glass, looked him in the eye as he handed it to him.

“Better?” Meaning, _will you please shut up now?_

“Fine.”

“Please be nice to my friends?” Greg said, leaning in a little, speaking quietly. Tom’s gaze was drifting all over his face, and Greg cursed his sudden impulse to look down at his mouth.

“Alright,” Tom said. “Fine.” He said it like a challenge, lifting his chin.

Tom made a few half-hearted jabs at his guests’ more idealistic opinions but otherwise stayed quiet, sprawling out as uprightly as possible on Greg’s couch, downing Scotch, staring out the massive window, scoffing only occasionally at the discussion. Greg got a little antsy, and his guests seemed to get the message. They left early, hardly after sundown.

Greg slouched down on the couch next to Tom after locking up, and Tom fidgeted, almost standing up but sitting back down a little closer to him. He shuffled around like that a few more times, in the silence, avoiding Greg’s gaze, saying nothing, like nothing was happening. Maybe Greg was just imagining things. Imagining how awkward this was.

But then Tom leaned over and put his head in Greg’s lap. He held his mostly empty glass on his stomach, slung his legs over the arm of the couch. Greg didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Do you ever just want to be touched?” Tom asked.

Greg swallowed. “For sure,” he said, his voice too high.

“How fucked up is it to be in a marriage where you’re never touched at all? Fucked, right?”

“I mean, I, uh, I’ve never been married, but like I guess, yeah. Sounds hard. Where’s Shiv right now?”

“How should I know? We’re grown-ups, right? She’s wherever she wants to be.”

“It’s not, like, my marriage, but I’m still not really sure I understand you guys’ arrangement thing?”

“I guess that just means you’re not a grown-up, Greg.”

Greg didn’t respond. His hands fidgeted on his stomach, next to Tom’s ear. Tom just lay there, sipping Greg’s probably mediocre Scotch, sighing occasionally.

And then Tom said, “Would you kiss me? If I asked you to?”

Greg sputtered embarrassingly.

“What the fuck, Greg? I’m just fucking with you.”

Greg looked down at him, said, “I don’t think you are anymore, Tom. I don’t think you actually, like, know how to do that. How to fuck with people.”

Tom sat up, all offended bluster: “What, you think I’d want to kiss _you_? A little stoner office assistant worm?”

“Yes, I do think that, Tom.” Greg didn’t really know what he was saying; in truth it seemed just as unlikely as Tom made it sound.

“Well, I don’t.” Tom got up to walk away, but Greg grabbed his hand, pulled him back toward him, saying, “Come here.”

“Jesus fuck, man, who do you think you are, grabbing me like that?” Tom’s voice was high and indignant.

They scuffled, until Tom finally prised his wrist out of Greg’s grip and sat back down on the other end of the couch. And then he just sat there, sullen, pouting. Greg waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He knew Tom wouldn’t leave, since he was there ostensibly to keep an eye on him, and Greg couldn’t bear to sit around in awkward silence the rest of the night. He downed the rest of his beer and made a decision.

“I’m tired of your shit, man. Stand up,” he said.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do. ‘Oh I’m Fancy Dan, the Greg Man. Somebody buys me some nice shoes and I think I can just start ordering people around.’”

“Look, I’m sorry. But just do it.”

Tom stood up reluctantly. “Why? What the fuck is this?”

“Take off your tie.”

“What the fuck, Greg?” But he’d already started loosening the knot, and he stepped closer to set the tie in Greg’s outstretched hand.

“Take off your pants.”

“I’m not—”

“Just do it. Please? I want you to sit here, and I know you’re going to get all fussy if you stretch out the knees.”

“Where am I sitting, exactly?” Tom’s face was vulnerable, a little red in the cheeks, his bluster dissolving. Greg watched as he folded his pants and set them on the side table and rolled up his belt neatly on top of them. And this time when Greg took his wrist he didn’t pull away, but let Greg pull him down to straddle his lap.

“Better for your knees this way, see?” Greg said. Tom nodded. His eyebrows had taken this obsequious slant, and his lips parted as he watched Greg speak. Greg set his hands on the cushions next to Tom’s shins.

“I’m just, like, trying to do what you asked,” Greg said, feeling a little flustered now that his brain had caught up to what he’d done.

“What did I ask?”

“If I’d kiss you, right?”

“I said it was a joke.”

“I know, it’s just that usually, um, when people ask things more than once? It’s not really a joke? You know?” Tom had been staring down into Greg’s face, his ass perched back on Greg’s knees, but now he looked away at the wall, his jaw tightening.

“So, like, do you want to?” Greg asked. He wanted to take Tom’s wrist again or touch his face or maybe his knee, but he was afraid Tom would bolt off if he did.

“It’s really not a good idea, is it?” Tom said. He looked back down at Greg. “But yes. I guess. I want to.” And then they just sat there frozen, staring at each other, until Greg could hardly hear himself think over his heartbeat rushing in his ears and pulled Tom’s face down into a kiss.

The kiss was hesitant and light, until Greg slid his hands from Tom’s knees up his bare thighs to his hips, and Tom became this desperately needy creature in his lap, shuddering out sighs into his mouth and grasping his shoulders and neck.

When they stopped to breathe, Greg said, “This is good, right?” and Tom nodded, his face lit up in an almost surprised smile. Tom unbuttoned Greg’s shirt as he kissed him again, then shrugged off his own. They tried to lie down and ended up sprawled on the floor, both too long to fit on the couch. Greg had landed on top, knocking Tom’s breath out of him, and he kissed Tom’s neck and chest until he caught his breath again.

“I want to try something,” Greg said.

“Don’t be a tease, Greg. You can just do it.”

So Greg crawled down to kneel between Tom’s thighs, watched Tom’s eyes close when he palmed his cock through his underwear. Tom didn’t protest when he tugged at the waistband, and when Greg took his cock into his mouth Tom’s moan was as satisfying as any verbal praise he’d ever given him.

Greg held his hips down when Tom came in his mouth and crawled back up his body to kiss him. He pressed his tongue into Tom’s mouth and with it his cum, trying not to lose any. As soon as his mouth was empty Greg pulled back and said against Tom’s lips, “Don’t swallow.”

Greg tugged off his own remaining clothes and sat back against the couch, pulling Tom up to sit between his legs, then pressed his shoulder down until Tom rearranged himself to take Greg’s erection into his mouth. When he opened his lips his own cum spilled hot out over Greg’s cock, and Tom looked up at him as Greg brushed his thumb at the corner of Tom’s sloppy mouth.

“Fuck,” Greg said. “You were right. I hate it. But you were right. It’s so hot.” And the sight of his own cum smeared across Tom’s reddened, breathless mouth was even better than he’d imagined it would be.

Later, facing each other in Greg’s bed, Tom looked into his face so thoughtfully and said, “If I splooged in a peach, would you eat it?”

“Oh my god, dude. What the fuck?” And Tom giggled almost manically.

“So you did read the book?” Greg asked.

“Of course I did,” Tom said, poking his chest. “So would you do it?”

Greg grinned despite himself. “Dude, I don’t know. Let’s just go to sleep. You don’t know how early I have to get up to wait in line for your fucking 8 a.m. coffee.”

“Oh, whatever. It’s not like you’re doing anything else.”

“I _could_ be, though.”

“Go to sleep, Greg.”

* * *

There was a fruit stand next to the coffee shop, and Greg really hoped Tom wouldn’t notice. Of course he did.

“Oh my god, Greg, look! These peaches look great! We should get some for the office!” His grin was fucking evil.

“Uh, yeah, whatever you think, Tom,” he said, walking away quickly to hide his blush. “I’ll just be in line.”

Tom was holding an entire bag of peaches when Greg met him back outside.

“Listen,” Tom said, biting into one, “this was your idea.”

“It wasn’t!”

“It was your book, though.”

“Fine,” Greg said, exasperated. “You have to stop smirking like that, though. People are going to, like, ask questions? And we really don’t need that right now?”

“It’s fine, Greg. Calm down. No one’s going to ask any questions.”

To Greg's relief, Tom forgot all about the bag of peaches in his delight at getting the papers back—and in his thrill at giving Greg shit for his file labeling system. Greg hid the peaches in a drawer, and other than about the extra-sweet smell in his office, nobody asked any questions.

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, I'm sorry, kind of, for like the whole thing, but also for once again reappropriating the "would you kiss me" line, which I am hopelessly attached to  
> but I just want them to be happy in love-lust and forget all their problems for a little while, okay?  
> I'm on Twitter at [@van1lla_v1lla1n](https://twitter.com/van1lla_v1lla1n), if you hang out there; feel free to dm me there about tag revisions too if needed.


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